The End
by elliejelliebean
Summary: Lady Elizabeth Darcy knew that she was dying. But this, like so much else these days, she kept to herself. It was a statement that was not easily brought up in everyday conversation. What was she to say? And, more painfully, who was she to say it to?
1. Part One

**A/N: I was craving Pride and Prejudice the other day (what else is new?), and couldn't seem to stop thinking, for some reason, about the deaths of our favorite characters. The result is this, times three. Yep. Pretty much I started a one-shot that is now on its twelth Microsoft Word page. So I am breaking it into three parts. In these three parts, we will learn about the life of the Darcy's through Elizabeth's end-of-her-life musings. In the two latter parts, there will be flashbacks. Expect parts two and three to come tomorrow or the next day; this story is almost finished and only needs editing. And lastly, thank you, all of my readers, for your loyal support. You honestly give me so much motivation and confidence; I cannot properly express my gratitude. **

The End: Part One

Lady Elizabeth Darcy knew that she was dying.

But this, like so much else these days, she kept to herself. It was a statement that was not easily brought up in everyday conversation. What was she to say?

And, more painfully, who was she to say it to?

It was a piece of information best kept enclosed in her own skin. It had ceased to evoke much emotion in her, in any case. She had accepted it.

Besides, she figured that anyone worthy of this knowledge would have already assumed that her days were numbered without her reassurance.

It was not that she was a sickly old lady—not by any means. In fact, she was perfectly agile, surprisingly so for a woman of her years. And she did not look so very old, either. Although her face was no doubt wrinkled and weathered more than other elderly ladies who had spent less of their lives out of doors, it had retained its liveliness, through the years.

Even at death's door, Lady Darcy didn't look to be someone who was often fatigued.

But despite her youthful appearance, those people closest to her should know of her impending death, or at least be suspicious of it. Beyond the sheer number of her years, there was indeed the matter of the death of her husband, which had occurred not nine months prior.

Elizabeth was not one for melodramatics, so to the casual observer, she mightn't have changed at all after the sad event. But the more observant of the servants and Elizabeth's close relatives and acquaintances saw how the little changes in her expressions and mannerisms were, actually, significant ones.

The most noticeable of these small changes was something in the set of her brow when her face was relaxed. She had always simply looked thoughtful or focused when she sat quietly, but after that day she always seemed in her idleness more melancholy, almost desperate, a little bit longing.

A little bit harder to catch were the times her expression quickly changed when she was reminded a bit too much of the dear Lord Darcy, like the first time she had seen his horse galloping across the grounds with the, tall, dark-haired stable-hand atop him, keeping the beast conditioned. Her smiling face had instantly become drawn, and she was somewhat distracted for the rest of the day.

But there was one time of night when Lady Darcy was very much different from her old self, although there was hardly anyone around to witness this. In fact, only one person even suspected that such a thing might occur. Old Oscar Reynolds, the now-elderly son of the long deceased Mrs. Reynolds, heard something every night as he swept the house to make sure that all of the candles and oil lamps had been put out.

All of the nights, he heard crying. It was as much a part of his evening sweeps now as the creaking third servant's stair from the basement and the sticky door in the west library. Every night, as he passed the master's chamber (the master and mistress of the house had stopped the pretense of separate bedrooms some 25 years before), there was a sound emanating from the always-closed door and darkness coming out the bottom crack. Some days, it was merely the echo of shaky breath that revealed the torment that was being experienced inside. But every Sunday, a loud, desperate sob could be heard all throughout the dark hallway outside the chamber.

Lady Darcy allowed herself one night a week to really, truly grieve for her lost husband. She could not grieve as much as she needed and wished, for she would then be consumed.

The thought of this made Oscar so incredibly sad, he was often of half a mind to curse the impropriety of it all and barge in the room to comfort her himself.

But, of course, he did not. He observed quietly, respecting his mistress enough to never share tales of her sobs to the rest of the staff, even when two of the cattier, less-observant teens had been discussing the matter:

"She doesn't even seem to care that he's gone! I swear it I heard Fanny and Sarah shed more tears for the master than I ever heard the Lady. And there's all this talk of how they loved each other so! Seems a bit one-sided, to me!"

He was of half a mind to reveal all then and there, but kept his tongue. Surely the Lady knew that people would talk like this if she didn't outwardly mourn, and surely she knew of the sympathetic conversations that would ensue in their stead if she did. Her choice was clear, and Mr. Reynolds would certainly honor it.

* * *

In her later years, Lady Elizabeth Darcy had come to posses somewhat of an air of stateliness that would have certainly surprised those who knew her in her youth and had not watched her progress.

She had not lost her adventurous spirit, nor her natural openness and tendency towards kindness. No, the things that made her so intimidating upon initial acquaintance were out of her control.

It stemmed, perhaps, from her appearance. She had aged very gracefully, indeed—no one dared to say, in the last few years of Jane's life, that Jane was the handsomer of the two (and Jane had not ever lost her beauty). And yet Elizabeth's face was, very plainly, old and wise. Something in her eyes betrayed a deep cleverness and wisdom that intrigued and sometimes frightened people in its intensity.

And then she wore the clothes that she was both expected to, and had, quite honestly, become accustomed to wearing. They were beautiful and elegant and tasteful. She didn't wear the latest fashions, but no one would ever dare insult her choice of dress, if not because it wasn't aesthetically appealing then because she made it so in her old air of confidence and newly discovered stateliness.

But the stately Lady Darcy was also, essentially, a very _good_ person. She cared for others; she helped them and enjoyed it. She taught in her goodliness, her actions affecting people all the more because of her seemingly contrasting wealth and status and openness and generosity.

As one may assume, Lady Darcy was very respected and beloved by the people that she was acquainted with, particularly those of lesser status in life, but also, in the end of her days, those above or equal to her in the eyes of society.

Therefore, her last months were busy. She was very involved, and people tended to come to her with problems and social calls because her company was always so very enjoyable.

This, in addition to frequent visits from her five children, left her with little time to sink into a state of grief, for which she was grateful. Clara, the youngest Darcy child by some 16 years and the only child unmarried, was staying with Lady Lillian Bradford, the second oldest of the Darcy children, during the summer before the death of Elizabeth Darcy. This was perhaps Lady Darcy's most potent regret. She would have liked one last summer with her youngest daughter.

* * *

Despite Lady Darcy's assurance to the contrary, not all of her five children suspected her death. All five of them were in very different places in regards to thoughts of their dear Mother.

Edward, the oldest, had been dreading his mother's death for many months, ever since his father had passed. But this was, probably, because he (and his wife and two children) had been staying at Pemberley with his parents when his mother had been told of Lord Darcy's passing. His mother had, quite literally, fallen down in a heap on the floor, shaking with tears and looking so weak, so sad, so out-of-control in a way that was not customary for her. He knew that his mother had been very greatly affected by the passing of his father.

Lillian, too, knew that her mother was experiencing much more distress than she ever let on, but that was simply because she knew her mother very well. She thought, or maybe simply hoped, that her mother could enjoy several more years on earth without her other half. In the meantime, she was glad to take Clara for a summer. She needed Clara's help, seeing as she had just birthed twin girls in addition to her three older sons. And Clara needed to get out of Pemberley, lest she fall into a pit of despair that came from losing a parent and watching the other dwindle slowly away.

Henry had positively no idea that death was next on his fearless, loving mother's To-Do list, for he saw his mother as the strongest person in the entire world. Henry, at the age of four, had experienced a rather awful bought of sickness during which he had a high fever for many days that was looking as if it may never break. Even his own father had looked beaten, sitting at his bedside, crying and distressing while Henry lied there. His mother, though, had taken initiative, made the doctor come and then another doctor and a nurse. It was she who looked at him still, during that time, as someone that was alive and well and simply needing to recover. She was strong, and she believed that he could be, too.

Anne didn't suspect anything either, but this was probably because she was so laughably bad at reading people. Besides, she hadn't seen her mother in some time, as her husband had moved her and their son out to America several years before, and her mother would never mention such sadness in her letters. She loved her parents and all of her siblings very dearly, especially her mother and Edward and Henry, but she had ambitions as an artist, and America was known as a land of opportunity.

Clara, however, knew that her mother's death was a sure thing and sometimes found herself marveling that Lady Darcy had lasted as long as she had after her father had passed. For Clara alone truly understood the depth of her parent's devotion to each other. She had been a surprise child late in the life of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth—when Clara was born, Anne was already practically a woman at 16 years. Because Clara had lived alone with her parents for almost as long as she could remember, she knew each of them very, very well. They made quite a threesome—Uncle Fitzwilliam always commented that his brain hurt when in the room with them, for they were all of them teased for their quick minds. And they all loved each other so very much, shared a very intense and unique bond. People teased Clara that she was an exact blend in the personalities of each of her parents. While Clara knew that this wasn't true, she wished for it to be so, for Clara believed that her parents fit together better than anyone else in the whole world and were each other's perfect counterparts. Clara had always dreaded her father's death, for she knew from a very young age that when she lost one of her parents, the other would soon follow.


	2. Part Two

****

A/N: Hokay. First, hi. How is everyone? I hope that you are all well.

**Second, thanks. Your reviews made me smile a lot. **

**Third, sorry. I know I promised this by Tuesday, but I'm only a day late, no? **

**Fourth, news. After careful consideration and not-so-careful inspiration, I have decided to add a bit more and split this story into _five_ parts instead of three. I hope that this is good news...? **

**Fifth, enjoy. :)**

The End - Part Two

It was raining. Elizabeth stared out of the window in the library over the dark grounds, thinking. Oh, how she loved the rain.

In the grey light of a storm, Pemberley was a safe haven, with the soft inside light of candles providing protection from either the raging fury or the calm, cold sadness of the storm outdoors. The sunlight no longer leaked in through the arching windows, seeming to bring the outside in.

In the rain, the windows separated the house from the rest of the world. They betrayed the chaos of the outdoors but promised to protect one from it.

Elizabeth watched the storm outside. There was thunder and lightning, she noted, but not the type that evokes fear. It was almost…calm.

It was a fitting mood, she decided.

She sat and watched the storm for a long time, until she was no longer looking at the dark grounds of present but walking among them in the sunlight with her husband, seeing a much lighter, happier time eighteen years past…

"_But Elizabeth, we must tell them sometime! And time is beginning to run short—in not three weeks we needn't say anything at all, lest they simply happen to catch a glimpse of your stomach!"_

"_But telling them while Edward is visiting is simply out of the question!"_

"_Why? Would you not rather tell them while all six of us are here together?!"_

"_Oh, Fitzwilliam, you are so incredibly daft sometimes! Do you pretend to be ignorant of the reason for Edward's stay?"_

"_Our son needs a reason to visit his own parents!"_

"_No, but I assure you that this time, he has design in staying here. He's trying to be subtle, but Mrs. Packard has instructions to set _seven_ places at the table when he arrives, and you have seen his letters these past few months—surely you remember his constant talk of his relationship with Rosemary Hillard? And then he was vacationing in the South this past week—you remember that this is where she is from? It's been four months since they've known each other. I am positive that he is coming here to tell us she will be his bride!"_

"_Edward? To be married? But he is so young! He just finished school, for Christ's sake—"_

"_Oh, Fitzwilliam, he is two and twenty!" _

"_I guess you're right," Fitzwilliam said quietly, looking slightly disturbed. "He's…he's quite assuredly a man now, is he not?"_

"_Yes, Dear, I fear he is."_

"_That would make Lily…well, practically a woman, would it not?"_

"_It would," Elizabeth consented quietly. _

"_Which would make us…quite old."_

_Elizabeth laughed, but it had a bit of an edge to it. _

"_Well, we are certainly doing everything in our power to stay young, aren't we? Forget propriety, forget that we should be settling down for our last years on Earth together, forget that our children are nearly adults! No, we must be careless and silly and bring another child into _

_this world just as we are saying goodbye to the last ones! We shall raise this child, only to have its parents die before it reaches maturity! I never suspected that we of all people would be so improper and irresponsible and—"_

_Fitzwilliam's face betrayed his anger before his words did._

"_I thought that we agreed to be happy about this?" He said, sounding a little hurt and very mad. "That this was a good thing, a blessing, not to be treated as a mistake or inconvenience! Not twelve hours after this declaration and you are ranting about impropriety and irresponsibility? For Heaven's sake, Elizabeth!"_

_Her face softened a bit, but there was disturbance still in her brow. "I am happy, really, Fitzwilliam, but you must admit it is not conventional—"_

"_We are married! You are carrying a child! There is nothing improper or wrong about this situation at all! Would you rather some young twenty-year-old mistress of mine be the one expecting?"_

_Elizabeth's eyes flashed. Many of their wealthier friends had begun taking on mistresses, and while Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam both stood very firmly against the practice, it was still a bit of a sore subject, seeing all of the discontent it caused. "Have you already realized how stupid, thoughtless, and incredibly awful the comment that you just made was, or do I need to wait for your apology?"_

"_No, I'm sorry, you're right, that was uncalled for. But really," he said, and he put his hands on her hips and looked into her eyes. "This is a good thing."_

_Elizabeth bit her lip. There was silence for a time. After what seemed to be a long while, she looked at her husband with a genuine smile. "It really is, isn't it?"_

"_Yes," Fitzwilliam said with force, and he gently took one of Lizzy's hands, placed it on her own stomach, and then brought it up to his lips to kiss the palm where it had touched their child. _

"_Yes," he said again, kissing her on the lips. And then they were both smiling and laughing a bit._

"_Yes of course, you silly, hormonal wife of mine, yes it is a good thing."_

_He kissed her again. _

"_So we'll tell them at Edward's arrival?" he breathed into her ear. _

"_Yes," she breathed back. After a time, she pulled back and looked into his eyes with amusement. "You are a very dangerous creature, Mr. Darcy."_

* * *

Edward Darcy sat in his study, trying to concentrate the paper in front of him and thoroughly failing. Try as he might to take in the odious steward's report, his mind was otherwise occupied.

His late father, bless his heart, had always been a very proper gentleman and during his lifetime took every measure to make sure that Edward would be prepared to become master of Pemberley once his parents had passed. Reading the long, boring steward's report was therefore a regular activity for Edward, one that he had always accomplished diligently and with some interest.

But this time, it was different. Becoming the master of Pemberley had always seemed to be a distant event. But now, with his father gone and his mother waning, it seemed to be just around the corner.

He could not read the report without becoming distracted with thoughts of his mother, which always made him wish to fetch Rosemary and the children and set off for a visit to Pemberley at once. He had a feeling that he wouldn't have his beloved mother around for much longer, which made him want to spend all of the time he could with her.

Forget the steward's report, he thought. That was preparing him for events after her death. He wished to make the most of her life at present.

With a frustrated sigh, he put down the report. There was a knock on his door. A servant entered.

"Mr. Darcy, there's a Mrs. Saunders here to see you. Shall I send her in?"

Edward's eyes widened. "Saunders, you say, Carson?"

The servant nodded.

"It cannot be! By all means, send her in!"

A moment later, a woman appeared at the door. Her long, straight dark hair was in a bun and her dress was that of a wealthy traveler. She was average in height and had very striking cheekbones, giving her a very interesting sort of haunting beauty.

"Anne!" Edward said, full of surprise and happiness.

"My brother," she said with a genuinely happy smile only slightly marred by the distress that Edward had detected in her countenance upon entering. "It has been so many years. It is so good to see you again."

"Pray tell, my dear sister, what has compelled you to travel so far away from your home, and without informing me or our mother!"

Anne's smile disappeared.

"If it is not too much trouble, brother, I beg that we set off for Pemberley at once. I so desperately wish to see our mother, but could not bring myself to ride by your village without imposing upon you."

"Why such urgency?" Edward asked, alarmed and worried that Anne was rushing because she knew more than he of their mother's impending death.

"It is nothing. I am simply very distressed and wish to speak with her. Letters have not satisfied me these past years, and after recent events I crave the warmth of her embrace. You may stay with your family or accompany me, but I am sorry to say I wish to depart and see our mother as soon as possible."

Anne's eyes were filling with tears. Edward was very shaken. It was rare to see her in such a state.

"I shall accompany you, Anne, but pray tell what it is that has you in such a state!"

"It is a long story. I will tell all on the carriage."

* * *

Elizabeth woke on the thirtieth of November and, sitting up in bed, very casually noted that today would be the day of her death.

She did not know this because she was planning on killing herself—she would never do that to her children—but because she could feel it. Even if she outwardly appeared the same, she could feel her energy and light leaving her slowly, had felt it, really, since the day he died…

And on the thirtieth of November, she felt wary, and very, very tired. She could feel that her body was winding down, giving up its feeble fight against whatever was overtaking it. It would be today, she noted, without quite understanding how she was so convinced. Or perhaps tomorrow.

She felt a very confusing mixture of emotions at the prospect of her death. First and foremost, she was worried.

She worried a lot about Clara, who was much like herself but with a little of her father's reserve and her Aunt Georgiana's sweetness. She did not want her to be unhappy in her marriage, which seemed likely with her looks, money, and charm, and it greatly saddened and worried Elizabeth that she would not be there to see her daughter through that ordeal.

She also worried about Lillian, who had just born twins and whose second child had mental difficulties. Elizabeth would have very much liked to stay with Lily and help her, but Clara had volunteered to go in her stead. Why had she done that? Elizabeth wondered now. But she knew, really: Clara understood that her absence in their small sub-family of three accentuated her father's, and also knew that Elizabeth would put on a charade of contentment in her final months that would be much more easily kept in her absence. Clara, Elizabeth knew, had been thinking of her mother in her decision to go and stay with Lillian.

And she worried about Anne, how easily stressed she was and how awfully she sometimes conducted her life…Elizabeth was really the only person that Anne confided everything in, through letters, of course…would she turn to Lillian or Clara, in her stead? No, she had always been closer with her brothers, but Elizabeth didn't think that she would write them with worries of little Theodore's fever or Imogene's acting out or her husband's growing appreciation for gambling and alcohol…

And then the newly married Henry…he had always been so dependent on her. She was glad, though, because they all had Edward. He was something of a father-figure, she knew, especially to Clara.

But she couldn't help but feel…relief, really, and joy at seeing _him_ again. It had been so long…never, since the day that they met, not even when she had hated him, had they been apart for such a time…

It was odd, really. She had known during his life that she had loved him—really, truly, honestly loved him more than anything.

But she hadn't known that her happiness was dependent on him. Her younger self would have laughed, and perhaps been a little disappointed. So much for independence. But she couldn't be happy without him. Definitely not.

The thought did not bring her any joy, but it did make her ache for him…

She felt sadness, also, at the fact that her life was coming to an end. It had been a very good life, certainly. The very happiest, Elizabeth believed, that one could possibly have. For though Elizabeth's life had had its fair share of tragedies (there were, originally, _six_ Darcy children…), there was a point when happiness peaked. If one was _too_ happy, she knew, they ceased to be so.

So yes, she was sad that her life was ending…

But, if she was being honest with herself, it had already ended, on a fateful day not nine months ago when the stupid, arrogant man whom she had married had left her in a giant house with more money than was really healthy for a person, surrounded by her children and friends and yet, somehow, completely and utterly alone.


	3. Part Three

**A/N: There are some situations in your life when it will not be appropriate to speak. There is too much sadness in the air. After completing this chapter, I am feeling this way. So, I'll just say...read on.**

The End - Part Three

On the morning of her death, Elizabeth got up and dressed as usual. She followed routine for the first part of the morning.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened until she set off for her walk. There was no need to worry, today, about being in the sun too long or returning in time for lunch, so she was very leisurely in her excursion.

As she walked, she dwelt upon the one recent memory of her husband that didn't bring her pain, but rather hope and impatience…

_It was the middle of the night, but Lord and Lady Darcy were not, as was to be expected, sleeping. _

_They had been engaged in _other_ activities for quite a while, and now lay quite still and content, looking at each other. _

"_Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth said softly._

"_Yes, Goddess Divine(__1)?__" he playfully responded, referring to a source of amusement almost as old as their love. _

_Elizabeth smiled openly for a moment, but did not continue her thought. After a ridiculously long while, her husband turned to her. _

"_You were saying?" he prompted. _

"_Yes, I was saying," she muttered, but her thoughts were elsewhere. He did not disturb her reverie, rather waited patiently. _

"_Do you ever think about death?" she finally asked._

_There was another silence._

"_I do," he finally admitted. "At our age, I think it is unavoidable to dwell upon it, sometimes."_

"_Yes. Do you think…well. How long do you suppose…?"_

"_How long do I think we have left?"_

"_Yes."_

"_I don't know, Lizzy. I wouldn't be surprised if you lasted another fifty years," he said with a smile. _

_But then he was very serious, his face grave. "But I would be happy to live to see Clara married, Elizabeth. I cannot be sure, of course, but I give myself two years, at best."_

_Tears welled up in Elizabeth's eyes. "Oh, how I hope I am to die before you."_

_Fitzwilliam's expression changed. "Do not say that! Elizabeth, you have far more life left in you than I do. I want you to stay here, where you belong, to be happy and look after our children when I am gone!"_

_The tear fell down Elizabeth's cheek. Fitzwilliam rubbed it away with his thumb. "I will try, Fitzwilliam. I promise I will try. But I don't expect to be long for this world once you are gone. I simply cannot imagine…"_

"_Oh, Elizabeth. I am sure you would cope with my absence better than I would with yours. I would follow you with in the week, I am sure." _

"_You wouldn't kill—!!"_

"_No, surely not! But I can't truthfully say that I would not be tempted. No, I simply cannot see myself living long past you, Elizabeth."_

_It was silent again for a time. Elizabeth was the one to break it. _

"_It is a silly question," she said. "But do you really believe, in total honesty, that we shall see each other again in death?"_

_He looked straight into her eyes._

"_I do," he said. "I do believe it, but not by choice."_

_Silence._

"_Elizabeth, I would not be able to get out of bed each morning if I feared that today was the last day that I would ever, ever see you. I __**must**__ believe that we will find each other."_

_Elizabeth's eyes closed for a long time, and her husband believed her to be asleep. _

_But it appeared she was only very deeply in thought, for after a time she whispered with finality, as if making a decision:_

"_I believe that, too."_

Elizabeth felt a pain in her chest. She couldn't determine if it was a physical or mental pain, but it was terribly sharp. And growing...

She fell to her knees, positively shaking with sobs. She could grieve today, yes? It was not Sunday, but it was her last day.

Oh, well. There was no point in trying to stop herself now. She turned her face to the sky, letting the raindrops mix with her tears. That pain in her chest...

And Elizabeth knew that she would be seeing him again soon.

* * *

Lady Elizabeth Darcy passed away in the late afternoon on the day before November's end. She died as she was walking through the grounds of Pemberley in the pouring rain.

She had departed in the late morning and not returned. She had walked and walked, feeling her fatigue but not feeling any desire at all to stop.

But she had stayed close to her home, because she felt safest there. She didn't want to wander away from the place where she had been so happy for so many years.

The servants began the search for her at nightfall.

As they set out, Oscar Reynolds was painfully reminded of a time when the Mistress hadn't returned from one of her walks many years ago.

But then, only an hour had passed since her expected time of arrival before Lord Darcy was on his horse, his countenance drawn with worry and an army of servants behind him, all of the staff but one that was to stay and care for Edward and Lillian.

This time they waited longer for her return, and it was with far greater sadness than worry that the search party set off. They all expected the worst.

Mr. Reynolds was the one to find her, spread across the ground in the East Gardens, light from the library window illuminating one side of her body.

He was no stranger to death and had waited for the Lady to pass for quite some time, so seeing her lifeless body didn't rattle him so terribly. He simply scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the house, calling out on his way that she had been found so that the rest of them would return.

* * *

Anne sat in a dark carriage, watching her childhood home slowly come into view.

It was odd—for the entire ride, she had been watching the sun set, and yet the darkness had taken her by surprise.

Perhaps that was her problem. She didn't see the consequences of actions; she had a very poor sense of cause and effect. The fact that the sun was setting didn't necessarily, in her mind, lead to darkness.

The fact that she was moving across a continent didn't necessarily lead to never seeing her family.

The fact that she was leaving her husband didn't necessarily lead to loneliness.

The fact that a child was leaning over the railing on a boat…

She was a stupid woman.

On the outside, she was hard, closed-off, all sensibility and sharp edges. If one ventured more deeply inside of her, though, they saw that she was actually very shaky, unsure of herself, and affected by the world. Her hardness covered her softness.

Her mother was quite the opposite.

On the outside she was soft and open, all lightness and kindness. Deeper, though, she was hard, completely sure of herself and very smart, grounded and untroubled. Her softness complimented her inner surety.

Anne was not a crier, which she found herself very grateful for in this past year. Instead, her eyes would sting and shine with tears that never fell.

They were stinging now.

Anne needed her mother. She needed her more than anything else in the entire world, needed to open up and tell her the story.

She hadn't told her brother in the carriage ride as she had promised (knowing full well that she would not follow through), on the pretense of not wanting her young son Theodore, who was not eight years old, to hear.

This was true—she wouldn't subject him to a retelling of their sad tale again.

But really, she was just trying to keep it all inside as usual. The only person who could ever make her release was her mother, and the fact that Anne was coming up her drive now was the only thing holding her together. Otherwise, she very well might explode.

It had been only six months ago that Horace's drinking and gambling had gotten to the point where he was no longer himself. Only four months ago that she had sold one of her landscape paintings to the President of the United States and two more to Massachusetts senators, earning enough for passage for three across the Atlantic and keeping this fact from her husband. Only three months ago that she had thrown the convoluted and nonsensical letter to her mother explaining her decision to leave Horace into the fire and resolved to arrange to see her in person. Only two months ago(2) that she had set off from the shores of the United States, her husband unawares. Only one month ago that she had seen Imogene, her innocent daughter of ten, leaning just a bit too far over the railing on the boat…

_Stop_, Anne told herself. She wouldn't – couldn't – think of it.

The carriage was slowing down, now, and Anne's heart beat quickly in her chest. She sat up straighter in her seat. Edward gave her a small smile as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Anne, despite the tendency towards propriety that she had inherited from her father, did not wait for her door to be opened for her and positively leapt from the carriage. She smiled a little as she thought that this was something her mother might do, in particular company.

Edward was helping Theodore, but Anne hardly noticed. She walked as quickly as she could up to the steps and rang the bell. A servant's tear-streaked face opened the door.

"Oh, Miss!" the servant said, her red eyes widening. It was Etta, a stern middle-aged woman who had taken care of Anne in her early adolescent years.

"Etta!" Anne said, a smile upon her face that was quickly dampened by Etta's expression. "Whatever is amiss? You look so distressed!"

Etta pursed her lips and several tears ran down her face. By this time, Edward and Theodore had accompanied Anne at the door.

"No!" Edward yelled, suddenly panicked as he saw the servant's face. "Please, tell me. Please tell me no!" he exclaimed, looking more out-of-control than Anne had ever seen him.

Etta simply let out a sob, nodded her head, and moved out of the way.

In the entryway, not twenty feet from the door, a group of servants gathered around Oscar Reynolds, who was holding the body of Anne's mother.

And that was when Anne realized.

An old woman living alone with a broken heart leads to death.

She should have known.

Anne let out a cry of despair and positively shoved servants out of the way to get closer to her mother.

Oscar laid the body on the floor at his feet. Anne kneeled down and embraced her.

Anne had needed the warmth of her mother's embrace.

All that she got was unresponsive cold.

Tears fell in streams down Anne's face. She shook with sobs, flinched when she felt Edward's cold hand on her shoulder and turned away when she heard her son's worried, questioning voice.

"Mum?" he said.

Anne grasped her mother's cold, stiff hand as if she could force life back into it.

"Mum!" she cried in despair, echoing her son with none of his questioning innocence. She wasn't innocent. She wasn't young. And she wouldn't question her mother, for her mother would not respond to her.

Never in her life had she felt more alone.

* * *

_Dearest Lillian, Henry, and Clara,_

_I write the same letter to each of you, for I fear I have not the emotional strength to make this sad announcement in three different ways. I hope you forgive me my weakness. _

_I am writing to tell you of the passing of our dearest mother. On the thirtieth of November, she set off on one of her walks and did not return. Mr. Reynolds was the one to find her, which brought me some comfort. _

_I arrived at Pemberley just as Mr. Reynolds was carrying her body inside. I won't be returning to my former home. Rosemary will stay and help to pack up our things and will come with the children as soon as possible. She will arrive in time to attend the memorial service exactly one week from today, on the 6__th__. _

_I hope to see you all at our home as rapidly as can be desired. Myself and our sister Anne will attend to you. _

_Yes, dearest brother and sisters, your eyes do not deceive you. Anne, also, will be at Pemberley with little Theodore to greet you. She has, I fear, a very sad story to tell, but wishes to do this in person. _

_Make haste, my family. I wish so much that we may come together and help each other in our mourning as quickly as possible. Anne and I are greatly anticipating you arrival. I look forward to seeing you all._

_With Love and Sadness, _

_Edward Darcy_

_P.S. Lily, Clara will be staying with me at Pemberley. If you wish to debate this, we may peacefully do so in person. However, I ask you, Clara, to journey with all of your possessions in tow. _

The writing was almost incomprehensible; it was clear that the author's hand had been shaking horribly as he wrote it.

* * *

1. P&P'05, US version reference here, if you did not catch it.

2. I'm not sure about the times. I tried to do a little research, but I was short on time and had to get this chapter posted. I hope that it doesn't hinder your enjoyment of the story.


	4. Part Four

**A/N: If you wish to shun me and leave me mean messages because I suck at updating, feel free. I know I'm erratic and awful. I'm aware. Have pity. Oh, and I can honestly blame my computer for the delay. Let's just say that Microsoft is not on my good side right now. School is hectic, as is politics and auditions and such, but the loss of the computer really made updating impossible. So now I'm back, with a chapter that I hope you enjoy. Thanks so much for your reviews--you are all the very best. **

The End - Part 4

When Lady Lillian Bradford, then young Miss Lily Darcy, first entered society at age eighteen, the vocabulary of the ton found itself severely lacking. Never was another adjective bestowed upon Lillian than that of the word _lovely_. Her sisters Anne and Clara were labeled controversial, proud, beautiful, sweet, amiable, shy, haughty, intelligent, fascinating, bold, unattainable, proud, well-mannered, and utterly remarkable.

Lillian was _lovely_.

And, truthfully, she was. Lily's voice was soft and kind; it calmed and soothed. Her husband, Lord Arthur, had once remarked that, was her voice projected for all the world to hear, she could say not but three words before the world would declare its problems solved.

Lily's face matched her voice. All kindness and blonde curls, she bore a rather striking resemblance to her Aunt Jane. However, Lillian's face was rounder and a bit darker than Jane's, her hair was not quite so luminous, and her eyes were not blue but rather a light brown. She was therefore declared, while still certainly a beauty, second to both Anne and Clara in terms of looks.

_Lovely_ also was Lillian's personality. Her primary character trait was that of a mother. This was not a recent development occurring after the birth of her first son seven years ago—indeed, Lily had been a mother all of her life. She was mother to everyone – her friends, her servants, and when the occasion called for it, to her siblings.

The only two people to whom Lillian was never a mother were her own parents. Rather, in their embrace, Lily took on the role of child. This she did up until the day of her mother's death. Lillian could always weather the worry and despair that came with harboring such immense amounts of motherly love, for she knew that ultimately, she was still a daughter.

A mother's job was to bear the weight of her children's despair, worry, and anxieties. Lillian could always perform this duty so magnificently because, at the end of the day, she too had someone whose job was to hold the weight of her emotions, and this woman had never once failed to do just that.

Therefore, when the soft-spoken, well-grounded, and _lovely_ Lady Bradford's mother passed away, she was shaken far more than anyone of her acquaintance, including her husband, could have guessed.

Upon receiving her brother's letter, Lillian's first instinct was to go comfort Clara. She was a mother before all, and her first reaction to any tragedy was wondering how it was to affect her children. She experienced her mother's death first from the point of view of sister to Clara, holding the girl for hours as she cried.

It was not until she got in her own bed that night that she allowed herself to mourn. She cried, loud, echoing sobs of despair that she could not bring herself to quiet even when she realized that there was a possibility her children might hear.

Arthur attempted to comfort her, his soft body and scratchy dirty-blonde beard never having failed to calm her before. But in his embrace, she could not but help worrying how seeing her so sad was affecting _him_, which only added to her current anxieties. What she truly needed was a mother, someone to shoulder her burdens upon, and this she no longer had.

Lillian knew that, to be a mother, you had to bear the weight of your children's worlds on your shoulders. Lillian did this every day, and then this weight she handed over to her mother.

Lillian didn't have her mother's strength. However was she to function without her?

When the sun woke her the next morning, bags under her eyes and her face blotchy and red, she crossed the room to sit at her vanity and look into the mirror.

She saw lines on her face. Her hair had lost some of its vibrancy. Was it possible, she wondered, that one night without her mother had aged her so severely?

Perhaps it was simply reflecting the truth that she had dealt with last night: Lily was no longer a daughter. With her parents vanished the image of the generous and shy little girl, the child that her father had always called "Angel" (and he was not ever one for terms of endearment).

The weight of her own world was now solely on her shoulders. Neither her heart nor her countenance reacted positively to this.

In the cold, early morning light, as she gazed upon the unsightliness of her lined visage and a tear rolled down her cheek, the former Miss Lily Darcy knew herself to be anything but lovely.

* * *

Clara should not have been so shaken. She had expected this. Awaited it, even.

But she simply could not help it. Clara had always identified herself as the third part of something bigger. Together, her father, mother, and herself lived in such harmony with one another, she always considered her identity to be grounded in the fact that she was her parents' daughter.

Now, she was not that. Nor was she her husband's wife or her child's mother. Clara was the only Darcy child utterly unclaimed, and she was discovering now that the one trait of hers that was not inherited from either one of her parents was a lack of surety in herself.

In reality, this would build in time, just as her father's did after his parents' deaths. But she did not know this now, and the lack of surety in her own person startled her immensely, especially as she prided herself as someone who was _always_ sure of _everything_.

And so, when her mother died, Clara broke. If she was defined as her Parent's Daughter, and she could no longer bear even that title, then she was nothing at all.

She was empty. Or perhaps not. She was more…not there. She wasn't present, for her identity was too much entangled in the lives of her parents for her to _know_ herself to be present, and her heart was too shaken at the loss of her parents for her to _feel_ anything but utter despair.

Surprisingly, seeing as they had never been particularly close, it was Lily's arms that held Clara together in that moment.

It was Lily who embraced her, calmed her with her soothing voice. Clara was forever grateful for this, because, in Lily's embrace, she knew who she was.

She was Clara—beautiful and recently-orphaned eighteen-year-old with an uncommonly sharp wit and mind. She was Clara Darcy, the girl that everyone in the London ton was going to talk about next season when she was finally out. She was Clarabelle, the girl that, at age three, had crawled her way downstairs at one of her parents' balls and, to her father's anger at the incompetence of the servants and her mother's amusement, made quite the scene in the middle of the dance floor (she was allowed to stay downstairs for a while with her parents, and from that day on made a traditional appearance for about ten minutes halfway through every Pemberley Ball).

She was Miss Clara Darcy of Pemberley, the girl that had inherited her parents' strength.

She would get through this. Yes. She would get through this.

Really, she had no choice.

* * *

The carriage arrived at Pemberley on the second of December at midday. There weren't a remarkable number of spectators. In addition to a few servants, Edward was there, along with Anne and Henry.

Lillian rushed to her three siblings and they rushed to her, embracing each other tearfully through their smiles. In their youth, the four Darcy children had been remarkably close.

"How long has it been?" Lily wondered, her voice muffled by Edward's jacket and her arms around all three of them.

"Four years, eleven months, and nine days," Anne said. Lily raised her eyebrows at her sister before she remembered that she couldn't see.

The next few moments could not have been predicted by anyone. Clara, who was infamous for inheriting her mother's boldness, was standing demurely off to the side, not knowing her place in the embrace of the siblings that were much more, to her, aunts and uncles.

And then Anne, known for her insensitivity, noticed her sister standing awkwardly off to the side. In a move much more befitting Edward or Lillian, Anne discreetly pulled Clara into the embrace.

"It is so good to see you, sister," Anne whispered into Clara's ear.

Edward heard this exchange and noticed the smile on Clara's face, which resembled the look of a euphoric and loved child.

Well, Edward reasoned, she was only eighteen. Still practically a child.

Anyone privy to Edward's thoughts in that moment would have probably foreseen some troubles with Edward's future guardianship of Clara. It did not appear that he would be so very accepting of the fact that she was already practically a woman.

Then again, no one could possibly be stricter than their father, so really Clara was getting a watered-down version of what she would have experienced with him.

But there was no Elizabeth to reason with him, either.

It was going to be an interesting couple of years.

* * *

That night's dinner was a bittersweet affair. The four eldest siblings had almost five years worth of excitement to catch up on and three decades more about which to reminisce. Chatter was endless.

Clara had expected to feel very apart from her siblings during the four days that they would spend alone at their childhood home—she knew the four of them to be uncommonly close.

But, oddly, she didn't. Perhaps it was simply Edward and Lillian's inherent attentiveness, or Henry's particular fondness of his baby sister. Or maybe it was Anne, who, surprising everyone, was the most loving towards Clara of them all. After all, thought Anne, it was _her_ who was there to witness Clara's very earliest years. And Clara did sometimes remind her a bit of Imogene.

Regardless of the cause, Clara felt very welcome and very loved despite the unavoidable feeling of obtrusiveness that plagued her when she was alone amongst the four of them. With her parents, she fit. Amongst her friends, she fit. In society, she fit. This was the one niche in which she couldn't find a way to be totally comfortable.

Irony reared its ugly head—one's family was supposed to be the one and only people with which you always had a place, and Clara found that they were the one and only group of people in which she didn't.

But they tried. Conversation was subtly twisted (in a way that only four people that have grown up amongst high London society can be) to include Clara completely. The reminiscing was, instead, storytelling. They told endless stories of their own childhood to Clara, regardless of how many times she had heard them all (She loved hearing them again; truly, life at Pemberley could be utterly hilarious at times. And then there was the matter of stories of her parents, which she had a new appreciation for.).

"Ooooh, Lily," Edward said after dinner that night, an uncommonly wide smile on his face and a far-off look in his eyes as he recalled with Lillian events decades past. "I don't know whether or not you'll have heard this one, Clara," he began. Clara was quite sure she had, but would not have mentioned that fact for all the gold in England.

* * *

The four days shared by only the Darcy children would have been utterly blissful had they not been clouded by the event which had caused their occurrence. The Darcy children seemed to have forgotten how very well they fit together, and this coupled with two new revelations made for a very pleasant reunion indeed.

The first discovery was that the children no longer needed their parents to keep the peace, for their own maturity took the place of their father's stern voice or, even worse, their mother's disappointed gaze. Perhaps, in time, the silly childish fights that come with sharing blood and home would return, but for those four days, they were nonexistent.

The second discovery was just how well Clara fit into their small group. It should have been expected, seeing as the original Darcy clan was joined by Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam and Clara was said to be a blend of their personalities. By day three, there was no needed effort on the parts of Edward, Lillian, Henry, and Anne to make the conversation gear towards Clara also. She was folded effortlessly into their group; really, she did just have about as much in common with them as possible for someone so unacquainted.

It was not that Lord and Lady Darcy didn't see their older children frequently; in fact, they saw them far more than usual for people of their age and location, always bringing Clara along to encourage those brotherly and sisterly bonds. But Clara knew all of her siblings as a child knows an adult, and they knew her in the same way.

In short, they were very pleased to find that they very much liked the older version of their baby sister.

And Clara was very pleased to find that her adult-self liked them and fit with them. For it was in that period of four days that Clara was claimed. She was no longer a daughter.

But she was a sister. And this was more significant than she ever could have guessed. For being a daughter or a wife or a mother meant that you were loved.

Being a sister meant that, also.

* * *

Henry Darcy's first thought as he woke up on the sixth of December was to be pleased about the weather. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at nothing more than the all-too-familiar sight of the top of his bed frame. However, this had been his room since he was a child, and he was very much acquainted with the different lights it possessed in sunshine, cloud cover, and darkness.

The grey hue of the light from the window told him that today would be stormy. Thus, his first thought was to be pleased about the weather. His mother loved storms.

And just like that, with nothing more than simply noting the hue of the light that first struck his eyes in the morning, he was remembering…

"_Henry," Elizabeth Darcy whispered to her sleeping seven-year-old, pushing his hair back from his face gently. He didn't stir. _

"_Henry," she murmured again. He shifted in bed, his eyes opening ever-so-slightly and then fully opening when he saw her. _

"_Mum?" he asked, groggy and confused. _

"_Shhh!" she shushed him gently. "We do not want to awaken the house. Come with me."_

_Henry did not like to get up. It was his least favorite thing to do in a day. But as a young boy of seven with a particularly incredible mother, he would follow Elizabeth anywhere. Gladly. _

_So it was with great anticipation that he was led quietly through the deserted halls of Pemberley, back into the Master's bed chamber. She opened the door to her bedroom and took Henry past his sleeping father onto the balcony. _

_A storm was raging outside. The most peculiar light covered the already awe-inspiring grounds of Pemberley—that of a storm occurring while the sun is rising. _

"_Look," she said simply, and they leaned against the balcony together and watched the storm progress. Henry was of half a mind to ask whether or not they were in any danger, with lightning raging ahead. But the question came from his brain, not his insides. He was completely calm despite knowing that he should not be, and decided not to disturb the peace of the moment with silly questions. _

_After a while, Henry's father came out to the balcony also, his hair a mess and in his nightclothes, startling his young son by looking so disheveled. Henry had never seen his father looking anything less than prim. _

"_I was wondering where my wife had gone off to," he said in groggy early-morning felicity as he came to them and kissed a smiling Elizabeth on the forehead. "And stealing young children out of their beds, too!" he said, picking up his son and resting him on his hip (Henry hated being picked up by anyone but his father, and protested severely if the hands were not the big, strong hands of Lord Darcy). _

"_I couldn't help myself. It is so very beautiful," Elizabeth said in quiet awe. _

"_Should he?" Fitzwilliam mouthed to his wife in such a way so that his son could not see. Henry had had a very close brush with death once upon a time, and everyone but his mother treated him as something fragile, not to be standing in the rain, however warm it was, without proper clothing._

_Elizabeth shook her head reassuringly. "It's so perfect," she then said, rubbing Henry's back. "I wanted him to see it." She smiled down at her son and looked into his eyes. _

_Fitzwilliam's brow was furrowed, but he looked reassured enough by his wife._

_They stood in silence again for a time, just watching the storm. _

"_I wanted you to see it," Elizabeth repeated in Henry's ear. "I thought you would appreciate it." _

"_I do," he said as his mother took his hand, holding it at about her shoulder's height, for Henry was very tall in his father's arms. His father squeezed him a little in a discreet hug. _

"_I love it," he said. Low, rolling thunder sounded overhead, and Henry thought it to be the most beautiful sound in the world. _

_Well, second, perhaps, to his mother's voice. _

* * *

During the funeral, it rained. The Darcy children were blank-faced. They all stood in upright, proper positions reminiscent of their father when he was in company.

It wasn't until they found themselves in a room in Pemberley sometime later, just the five of them, that they cried together. The storm made it appear to be late evening even though it was only afternoon, and the eerie light was fitting as Clara sobbed, Lillian soothed, Anne sat motionless, Henry cried quietly, and Edward wiped the tears as soon as they left his eye.

Edward stared at the fireplace for a very long time. Despite the servants and children and wives and husbands and guests milling about, Pemberley had never felt emptier.


	5. Part Five

**A/N: And here you are, Dearest Readers. Drumroll, please. I present you with the final part of this story. I implore you to review, for this story really kind of was my little baby and I am dying to know what everyone thought. Thank you so very much for reading, and to those of you who are frustrated with the time it took to update, look at it this way—this chapter is twice as long. Twice the wait, twice the length, twice the quality, no? Let's hope. I adore you all and please, enjoy.**

**P.S. This'll disappear tomorrow, but for now, I'm going to tell you something. I have spent the last...well, very long while at my computer. Yes, I wrote this all in one sitting. So guess what? I'm not going to edit it. Nope. Nada. What you read here is pure, unedited me, with my fingers flying at ten thousand miles a minute and convoluted ideas making no sense in my own head, much less on paper. I hope that it's still presentable, and I shutter to think what I'll encounter when I edit it tomorrow, but I'm _really_ tired and I _really_ _really_ wanted to get this posted tonight. So...yeah. Forgive me! Enjoy!!!**

The End of The End – Part Five

The next few weeks passed in a confusing mixture of mourning and holiday cheer. The clothing of the house was black, the facial expression somber, and yet, as every year, festive decorations went up and the frosty air brought winter exhilaration. Christmas would come and go for the Darcy children whether or not their parents were there to celebrate it with them.

The mood surrounding the approaching holiday was both a very happy and sad one. It was happy because it was Christmas, and that was always lovely, but it was sad because with the passing of Christmas came the departure of Henry and Lillian and their respective families. Nobody wanted the bittersweet reunion to come to an end.

But there was little time to dwell upon such things, for the annual Pemberley Christmas Ball was approaching. Edward and Rosaline had debated cancelling, only to be urged most strongly by Henry's wife Nina, whose father was a diplomat and always knew what to do in terms of society and correctness, that the show must go on—the people of Derbyshire needed to see and be reassured by the new Master and Mistress of Pemberley.

Therefore, Pemberley was decorated in a way that showcased its splendor, and Lillian, Anne, Rosaline, and Nina were fitted for grand ball gowns. Clara wasn't to attend the ball, for she wasn't out until the Spring. Rather, she would spend the evening with her nine nieces and nephews. This fact brought her little pleasure—although she adored children, she enjoyed society, and the exclusion from the ball brought back those insecurities of being an outsider because of her age that she hadn't felt in the past month.

During the weeks leading up to the ball, the house was a flurry of activity. Rosaline, Anne, and Lillian were busy planning the ball, Nina and Clara were occupied with getting Clara ready for society in the Spring, Edward was stressed with learning to be Master of Pemberley, and Henry was always working on his new novel. The little cousins were chasing each other around the house, getting to know each other, and Arthur was in Italy on business.

Anyone watching the family would note their slow steps to recovery during this period. Edward became a little more sure of himself and his position; Lillian stopped being distant and began acting like the loving mother-figure she was to all; Henry started to trust again. Clara started becoming familiar with herself and her new identity. And sometimes, if you were lucky, you could catch Anne in a smile.

* * *

Rosaline Darcy woke late on Christmas Eve to find her large, still-unfamiliar bed empty and cold.

Her eyes still slits from sleep, she rose from bed and stepped onto the cold floor.

"Edward?" she called softly. She wanted his warmth, right now, and she was worried about how much sleep he was getting. She wanted him to come back to her.

He was clearly not in the room. She deliberated for a while before crossing to the door and opening it, stepping into the hallway. Her new home was still unfamiliar to her. This would be her first late-night excursion inside its halls.

It also, it turned out to be, would be the first time she truly understood the enormity of Pemberley.

Edward was not in the kitchen. He wasn't in the dining room, three living rooms, four bathrooms, or five sitting rooms. She momentarily feared that he sought removal from her company and was sleeping in one of the numerous guest rooms, but a rather long-winded search yielded no results. She was starting to get very worried when she heard a sound coming from a very grand set of doors at the end of the hallway.

The ballroom! She was silly. She knew he loved that room…of course he would go there when he sought comfort.

She opened the large doors silently, no simple feat—they were really quite enormous.

And she saw her husband, waltzing around the dark room with his arms around an imaginary partner, his eyes closed. He was humming the tune that they had selected for the first dance…the dance that they would waltz to together to open the ball. They had practiced extensively—all eyes would be on them, and it had to be flawless.

An involuntary smile spread across her face. One of the things that irritated her most about her husband was that he would not be embarrassed. He was always proper and prim, never willing to be silly or risky. He acted just as he should, always.

Except now.

Rosaline watched for a long while, before the urge to join him became powerful enough to make her cross the floor. Sneaking up on him, she placed herself in the arms, set up so perfectly for her. His hand was exactly where her shoulder was; his other arm extended the perfect length for her own.

At her touch, he was intensely started. His eyes snapped open.

"Rose!" he exclaimed. "You scared me!"

It took a second of his heavy breathing and her good-natured smirk for his face to pink.

"I was just—" he began. "You see, sleep evaded me, and I felt the need—"

"It's okay, Edward," she said, and his tense face relaxed a bit. She went to him and embraced him. "It's okay," she repeated. Slowly, he relaxed. She felt him take a deep breath.

"I couldn't sleep," he said quietly. "I kept thinking about my parents…they were so majestic, so beautiful, so sure, when they took the floor…Lily and Henry and Anne and I would always look down on them. My father's dancing was flawless. My Mother's wasn't at all, but she gave them life, and he was so good he made her never miss a step."

He drew away from her so that he could look into her eyes. She saw his face, tired but handsome, a little bit of grey in the roots of his dark hair. "That's us now, Rose. We have to be what they were…parents and leaders and masters. I just wish I had my dad here, to help. Or my mother, to comfort."

The corner of Rosaline's mouth raised in a sad half-smile.

"Come," she said. In a move very unlike her usually shy disposition, she took his hand and dragged him to the center of the floor. She positioned them to begin dancing.

"No, Rose," he said with a shake of his head.

"Come on, Edward," she urged.

"It's not proper!"

"You were doing it when I entered! Now humor me." She curtsied. "Mr. Darcy, may I please have this dance?"

He rolled his eyes a little, but then smiled. "It is I, not you, who should request the dance."

Nevertheless, he took her hand, and they began humming the song together as they moved in synch.

His step was precise, measured and never incorrect. She usually spent so much time concentrating on not making a misstep, but today she considered what he said about his mother. She knew it to be true; she had seen her in-laws dance together.

She was a gifted dancer, she knew, and she let herself go a bit. She missed a step, and then another, but he only guided her with a little more force, and responded to her liveliness with some of his own.

Soon, they were flying across the floor. He improvised, lifting her up into the air, causing them both to laugh a little.

She felt herself release, felt that tight code of behavior that she kept to as a lady of such status unravel a bit. It was liberating.

And she could tell from his face that Edward was soaring, too—he was smiling, hoping, living. She hadn't seen him look so lively in quite some time.

Should someone have been passing by and seen the couple from the door, it would have been very easy, even with Rosaline's auburn hair, to mistake them for another couple.

That waltz, Rosaline decided, would be a model for their time at Pemberley. They both needed to get out of bed sometimes, in the middle of the night, and dance. This was something that Elizabeth had understood about life.

Rose understood, now, too.

* * *

"Henry," Nina whispered, her face alight with excitement. He didn't awake. "Henry!"

"Mum?" he questioned, groggily. Nina's face fell a little bit. Would he see her and be disappointed? She wanted him to be happy, at this moment.

She wanted him to be happy whenever she woke him. She wanted him to value her midnight ramblings more than his sleep. It was ridiculous, but true.

But when he saw her, he didn't look disappointed. He was shocked for a moment, and disoriented. And then he recognized her, and his face lit up.

She smiled wider. This was what she had always hoped for in a marriage.

"I have something to tell you, Henry," she said. "I was going to wait until morning, but I couldn't sleep, and it's past twelve, so really, it is Christmas right now…"

He sat up in bed, trying to fully awaken. "Tell me, Love," he said. He was excited.

"We're going to move."

"What?" he asked, very confused. "But why? I thought you loved the cabin…"

Although they could certainly afford more, the small cabin that they had bought as a young couple was very dear to both of them, and neither were eager to leave.

"Your last novel sold more than enough for a considerable expansion of our quarters, and I will absolutely not have two babies sleeping in our bedroom."

And then he understood.

"No," he said incredulously.

She nodded her head, overcome with happiness.

"No!" he said, different this time. He was disappointed; he was sad. "No!"

She couldn't help herself. She would claim it was the hormones, but she knew that even if she had been entirely well, she still would have started to cry.

* * *

Lillian lay awake for a while, listening to Arthur's snores. She couldn't sleep. She lied awake far past twelve, thinking of her family.

She loved them all so much. She prayed well into the night for their health, safety, and happiness.

And when she saw the visions that plagued her—her son Samuel, dead; Clara, raped; Arthur, sick—she just sat there and prayed more. What would come would come, and in the meantime, they could enjoy each other. Her mother couldn't make the world perfect, and she couldn't either.

She could just love and be the best she could be. And she had to have faith that this would be enough.

* * *

That night, Clara dreamt of her mother. But instead of the horrific dreams of her dead body that had plagued her throughout the past month, this was different.

_She was standing in the crowded Pemberley Ballroom. It was the Christmas Ball that would be held the next day, but she was attending in her dream, and it was her first ball. As she reached the top of the stairs, every girl's fantasy was fulfilled. The crowd turned to look at her, and they all stood in awe at her beauty. She started to move down the stairs, but suddenly she knew, like you sometimes just knew things in dreams, that she couldn't move unless her mother carried her. It was like she was a little child; she couldn't navigate the stairs on her own. They were scary—they were tall! She needed her mother's arms…_

_The crowd was watching, expectant. Clara panicked. She couldn't get down the stairs! She needed her mother! Where was her mother?_

_And then Elizabeth was there, coming from the hallway behind her. She came and stood next to Clara and put a hand on her shoulder. _

"_Mother!" Clara whispered frantically, turning and grasping her mother's hand. "I need you to carry me!"_

_Elizabeth smiled softly. "Clarabelle," she whispered. "You don't need me. Trust me. Just take the first step."_

"_No! I don't think you understand! I can't—"_

"_Clara, you'll be fine. You must to let go of my hand."_

"_I _need_ you—"_

"_Let go of my hand, Clara. I'll be right behind you. Let go. I'll be right there…"_

"_I don't know if I can—"_

"_I'll be there, Sweetheart. I promise."_

* * *

On Christmas morning, Henry dressed with frustration and anger.

Nina, his Nina, was pregnant.

It wasn't yet a year since she had borne the baby that very nearly killed her. He couldn't bear to go through that again; he was certain, this time, that she would not make it through…

She had told him to have faith.

But that was ridiculous! He should have faith that his wife should not die, when in all likelihood her days were numbered! Preposterous! They shouldn't have…

He wouldn't accept this. Couldn't accept this.

His wife walked into the room avoiding his eyes, her eyes blotchy and red. She was angry and she was going to give him the silent treatment. Henry and Nina were infamous for their fights.

Henry looked at her, his eyes a mixture of sadness and resignation because he couldn't stop what would take over his wife, what would consume and change and _kill_ her….

And then he realized something.

He was looking at her as everyone had looked upon him when he had been sick all of those years ago…like she was already dead.

It had been his mother who had saved his life, simply by believing that he was strong enough.

"Oh my," he muttered, horrified at himself.

His wife looked up, curious for a second before she remembered that he was mad.

"Nina, Love," he said, crossing the room to her.

"Don't—"

"Listen, please," he pleaded. "I was so foolish. I feared so desperately for your life and so I forgot to be happy with you, to celebrate and tell you that I believed in you. I am happy, Nina, I promise I am. I was just scared."

"So, you're excited? You want this to happen?"

Henry checked himself. "I want us to be safe together with two healthy children and a comfortable house," he answered, truthfully.

"I love you," she said, and there was such a fire in her eyes, he found it very hard to believe that she would even break a sweat.

* * *

The carriages started arriving at six, before the impending storm had began. One could tell from the first arrivals that the ball would be a very large success.

The first carriage to arrive happened to arrive early. In it happened to be a very handsome and wealthy young man of three and twenty.

And it just so happened that Clara was returning from a walk with little Theo when the carriage pulled up.

Introductions were made; flirtatious glances were exchanged. The two weren't eager to part when the second carriage arrived, but they did so with promise:

"Well, Miss Darcy, you may take comfort in the fact that you shall have a friend when you arrive in London in the spring."

"And you, Mr. Hart, may take comfort in the fact that you have a willing young partner reserved for the first dance."

"I look forward to it," said Alexander Hart.

So did Clara.

* * *

The ball was in full swing when, all of a sudden, one of the servants that Anne had thought was tending to the children made her way through the crowd, slightly frantically.

"Mrs. Saunders!" she said when she was near. "Mrs. Saunders, you must know that there is someone here to see you!"

"Well then, Etna, for heaven's sake why aren't they inside? It's not as if there is a penalty for arriving late!"

"They said it would be better if you saw them outside, Ma'am."

"In the rain?" Anne asked.

"I understand, Ma'am. I said the same. He was very insistent."

"Very well then," Anne said, mystified.

She walked outside, in the rain, too curious to care if she was getting wet. She found a man standing before her, turned with his back to her.

He was scruffy, but his clothes were not that of a poor man, or even a merchant—they were quite fancy, but well-worn. He was thin, and his hair was a very pleasant color of brown.

"Hello?" she asked.

He turned, and she found herself looking at her husband. He was much thinner and healthier, with an overgrown beard and sorrow in his eyes, but it was him.

"Horace," she squeeked.

"Anne. Oh, my Anne," he said, tears starting to form in his eyes. Anne was shocked. He never cried. Ever. "Tell me it isn't true. Tell me Imogene is here with you."

Anne couldn't bear to lie to him, nor could she bear to speak the truth. She just shook her head, tears falling down her own face.

"No!" he said, and he was sobbing in her arms. "No!"

Anne was of half a mind to force him away. But she so wanted him in her arms…she had forgotten how good it felt to hold him, to see his face…she ached for him.

But no—she was strong! She was seeking to be like her mother. Her mother would never allow a man so pathetic as Horace had become in her lap. Her mother was the strongest, most grounded person she knew. She would have the power to make Horace leave.

But…no.

Anne saw something now. She remembered….

She remembered herself journeying half way across the world to this house to be met with warm arms…with the only pair of warm arms that she knew loved her with all of their being. She had needed someone then, and had been met with cold.

Elizabeth would have provided that warmth to Anne, regardless of whether or not she disgraced the family with divorce or didn't keep a close enough eye on her daughter.

Anne would provide that warmth to Horace, even if it was his neglect and self-gratification that found them sitting on the steps of Pemberley in the freezing cold night rain of December.

They cried together for Imogene. They held each other and cried together and remembered her and organized a funeral. Anne was more open than she had been in years…more open than the time she said goodbye to her mother the last time before leaving for America…

And when they were done, they just sat on the steps.

"I would have come after you right away, Annie," he said, "if I had thought you wanted me to. But I figured you wouldn't want me unless I was sober and rich again and not a gambler."

"And?" Anne prompted.

"And my pride was a little hurt," he admitted with a small smile. "Maybe," he added, laughing a little.

"But Annie, I did what I wanted. I'm sober. I don't gamble. I'm working—I know, I know. I can't believe it either. I left as soon as I heard the rumors, but…"

Anne paused. She didn't know what to do. Trust him? Honestly, she had very little reason to. _Mother_, she thought. _Help me out a little bit, here?_

Nothing. No triggered memories, no echoing response in her head, no sudden epiphany. She couldn't go write a letter to her mother asking her advice; she couldn't go cry with her until the answer came to her. She was alone.

Later, she would think that maybe her mother had answered her in her silence, for it forced her to make her own decision. She would never know either way. But she did know what she said to him.

"Horace," she said, her voice tight with emotion.

"What, Annie?"

"Promise never to leave me again."

"I didn't—"

"Promise."

He nodded his head slowly, understanding. There was a pain in his eyes, but it looked as if he would recover.

"I promise," he mouthed.

And she kissed him.

* * *

No one questioned anything when a soaking wet Anne led her ex-husband upstairs, nor when they didn't reappear until dawn had broken and the last of the guests were driving down the way.

But Anne and Horace did reappear then, along with Clara, who had woken early from the crash that resulted from a man who had had a bit too much to drink colliding with a tray of empty wine glasses.

They all found themselves, the four sibling and their spouses and little Clara, at the breakfast table. They were all starved, and wished to eat a little before retiring to bed for the day.

The mood was tired and quiet until Anne muttered, "This is our last meal together for quite a while."

Everyone raised their eyebrows.

"Henry and Nina are leaving this afternoon. Lillian departs tomorrow. And Horace, Theodore and I will be returning to America in a few weeks."

They all looked down at their plates. Lillian wiped a tear.

"When, sister," Edward asked, "do you expect to return for a visit?"

"I was hoping, if it is okay with you of course, Edward, that we might make it a tradition? The month of December at Pemberley for the Darcy's?"

There was an explosion of agreement. It was decided upon: on the day of their mother's death every year, they would convene at Pemberley, and there they would stay through Christmas.

Despite their extreme fatigue, no one wished to arise from that table. There they stayed for many hours, talking and eating and drinking and prolonging their time together.

And when it was time for a positively exhausted Nina and Henry to depart, they all agreed to one last toast.

"To Mother and Father," Edward said.

"To Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam," Arthur chimed in.

And Nina, who had always, for some reason, addressed them this way, said: "To Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy!"

* * *

And that, my friends, is the end of this tale. It is how the love story concludes, how the characters live on in others and leave behind footprints of their presence on the Earth.

This, readers, is The End.


End file.
